


Eternity Waits for No One

by SailAweigh



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmas, M/M, Magical Realism, Time Travel, a soupcon of Groundhog day, and then again Christmas Carol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailAweigh/pseuds/SailAweigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard McCoy doesn't like revolving doors, but The Doorman doesn't give him any choice. Or does he?</p><p>Written to answer the prompt: McCoy has recently relocated to the Big Apple, and even surrounded by millions of people the breathtaking skyline view from his penthouse apartment leaves him feeling empty and alone. Fortunately the apartment's doorman, Jim Kirk, is a chatty sunovabitch and does his part to make McCoy's first big city Christmas a little more homey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Leonard Has Never Heard A Who

Jim stood in front of the wet bar in the penthouse suite and poured a (very) large shot of scotch into one of a row of heavy tumblers lined up against the backsplash. It was time to start a new project, something he used to look forward to, but these days he found it brought him more and more stress. The job had been interesting when he'd first been offered it, even if he hadn't had much choice in accepting the position. He'd fucked up and he knew he owed it to others to fix things. If he could. Once, he thought he was so good that all it would take was a snap of the fingers to set things right. He knocked back a large swallow of the scotch, barely tasting it. That had been so, so long ago.

Carrying the drink with him, he slowly worked his way to the overstuffed, mahogany-colored leather sofa (the only thing of color in the room) that backed along one wall. It faced the floor to ceiling windows that looked out over Central Park. Right now, it was a snowy wonderland, sparkling white and crystalline in the pale winter light. Gorgeous view, if you could afford it. Jim couldn't (he didn't get paid with anything so mundane as _money_ ), but with his talents, he could be anywhere he wanted to be, authorized or not. This particular penthouse was soon to be the residence of someone else. Jim was just...preparing it for occupancy. 

Running his hands along the bare walls, he wondered what the space would look like after he completed his job. The white carpet, white walls, glass and chrome accents made the space appear aloof and cheerless. No plants, no pictures, yet. There was no personality to the place, just the bare bones laid out by the architects. He supposed it had something to say of his next client: spare, no frills, driftless. Would it remain that way when he was done?

Sitting down on the sofa, Jim fanned out the contents of the half dozen dossiers that littered the glass and chrome coffee table like fallen leaves after the first cold snap of fall. The pictures of three men and three women, all potential tenants of the Enterprise Residential Tower, stared up at him. Jim leaned over them and studied their photos carefully, looking for all the signs that said a particular person was in the most need of the more esoteric of his specialized talents.

Most people were happy for his assistance. They led fulfilling lives that included family, hobbies, the rewards of a job well done. Their lives were self-directed and ended surrounded with loved ones, passing on to the next stage knowing they'd left everything in order and ready for further adventures. But some...some rejected their natural path, clung to a solitary existence that led them nowhere: nowhere but the endless dark.

There were some few people who found contentment in their solitude. They actively sought it, but still interacted with their environment as an organic component; not as a rejection of the world around them, and its interconnectedness, but an understanding that they were a part of a larger whole that required no individual acknowledgement. Like an electron around the nucleus of an atom, they never touched another part of it, didn't need anyone to tell them what their job is, they just knew that they had an essential role in the existence of the whole. This was their fulfillment. They welcomed him with the innate knowledge that they woulld still be part of something majestic and were integral to its continuance. 

The system gave up nothing without willingly welcoming it back. Even in these matters the law of conservation of energy held true. If only everyone understood that, it would make Jim's job a lot easier. Wrestling with those who tried to circumvent entropy was exhausting. And so far, fruitless. Oblivion mocked him with his lack of success, binding him to his condition endlessly until he finally wrenched one of his hopeless cases back into the system; then he could achieve equilibrium, too. 

Maybe there was someone in this batch, one who would break the cycle for him (with him? a surprising thought.) He immediately discounted five out of the six dossiers for those exact reasons. Their time would come and he would be the one to ferry them over, joyfully and with fanfare. Reunions were something to be celebrated in every way possible.

Then there were those--like the man with dark spiky hair and the deep hazel eyes--whose faces were devoid of any joy, or even contentment. The profile in the dossier of one Leonard McCoy, otherwise known as the Decryption Doctor, the moniker endowed on him for his skills in network security for some of the largest Fortune 500 companies, listed him as single, an amazing number of failed relationships, no children, no pets, both parents deceased along with a sister in a car accident when he was seventeen years old, and estranged from the aunt and uncle that took him in after his parents' deaths. Other pictures of Leonard showed a man of solitary pursuits: reading a newspaper outside of a coffee shop - alone, running along the Embarcadero - alone, buying a theatre ticket - for one, carrying a bottle of whiskey out of the local liquor store and taking it home to drink - alone. 

Jim ghosted his fingers over the photo, feeling a wistfulness at the loneliness in the eyes that stared out at him. For some reason, this man has caught his attention. In every picture McCoy's face was shuttered, closed away from the world and uninviting. Far from having an understanding of where he fit in the world, he strained to escape the bonds of community as if it were the only thing that would finally give him peace. Yet, there was a hint of vulnerability, a pinched look around the eyes. Perhaps it was more that the bond had been weakening over time and no matter how hard he tried in the past, the tether just kept slipping out of his hands. At every turn he's thwarted himself somehow. Took the wrong road, walked the wrong path, sat down when he should have stood up. It's a sense of resignation and futility Jim saw in him. 

Oblivion was coming for Leonard McCoy and Jim was the only one who can direct him toward the correct threshold before it's too late. Again, something indecipherable wormed its way into his conscious, telling him this man would be personally very important to him. Maybe that was what had been lacking in his previous attempts, a more personal connection with the doomed person. The thought seemed to fill a void in his chest.

Jim held up the photo and looked the subject in the eye. He spoke to it as if the man was sitting right there with him. "This is going to be painful, but my mother always said a little suffering is good for the soul. You'll thank me in the long run."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**December 22nd**

Leonard stepped out of the airport limousine, tugging on his scarf to draw it closer around his throat when a gust of cold air insinuated itself down the back of his coat. After the warmth of the car, the winter air was chill on his face and gloveless fingers. The weather was a huge difference from southern California. At least the Christmas decorations lining the streets and plastered all over the surrounding buildings didn't look as out of place as colored lights on palm trees. Even then, he could do without them, thank you very much. Season of overblown commercialism that did no one any damn good anyway. (The 'bah, humbug' was totally understood, even if he didn't say it aloud.)

Taking the opportunity to get his feet under him, the travel having left him feeling a little unbalanced (he fucking hated flying, godawful invention), he stopped in amazement when confronted by the towering structure in front of him. The building was even more magnificent than it had appeared in the brochures and the photos he'd perused online.

Tipping his head back, he took in the fantastical view in front of him. The street noises around him faded from his notice as the sheer magnificence of its gleaming silver sides overwhelmed him. The pale white glare off its surface in the frigid December day made his eyes water more than the cold itself. It shone so brightly, he couldn't tell if it was glass or metal or something in between. Improbably tall, the building soared endlessly until its convergence point faded out of sight at the extreme angle he was viewing it at. Scanning down the sides, he saw that the lower one-third of the building shimmered a flickering red--a flowing, constant surge of color that the marketing material said was intended to make the tower, from a distance, look like a rocket ready to blast off from its gantry. This was the Enterprise, his new home in the Big Apple.

When Leonard's gaze eventually descended back to the solid ground (thank all the little gods) under his feet, he found himself confronted on the other side of the car door by a person dressed in a gold frock coat and sharply creased black pants. The coat was replete with gold braid around the sleeves and on the shoulders, its gold buttons were embossed with a triangular insignia that was also found on a badge on the coat breast. His black top hat was banded with gold and tipped forward at a jaunty angle, leaving his face mostly in shadow. Around his neck hung a thick black lanyard from which a large golden key depended. 

"Welcome to the Enterprise, Mr. McCoy. I am The Doorman." The figure tipped his hat with a black-gloved hand to expose burnished blonde hair, magnetic baby blue eyes and an inviting smile that only dimpled on one side. The cheeky grin practically begged for one in return. Leonard felt his face twitch, caught between an instinctive grimace of repudiation at the (overblown) cheeriness and a contrary urge to respond with a smile in kind. No one should be this exuberant in this kind of weather. Or that damn attractive.

"Stating the obvious, aren't you? Look like a doorman to me." Leonard gave him a scathing up-down.

"Oh, I'm not just any doorman, Mr. McCoy, I am The Doorman. Like The Doctor," he offered.

"Doctor Who? What's so special about a doctor? Find them in the yellow pages, dime a dozen." Leonard gave an exasperated sigh. "Are you going to get my bags or are we going to stand here arguing semantics until I call my agent and tell him to sell my brand new penthouse?"

Looking completely unchastened, the doorman flourished a hand at Leonard, gesturing toward the steps that led up to the facade of the building. "If you would be so kind, Mr. McCoy. I'll have a bell hop deliver your bags immediately."

The doorman tapped twice on the insignia fastened to the breast of his coat and by the time his hand dropped back down by his side, there were two young men, one dressed in gold and one in red, running towards the trunk of the limousine. "They'll be ready by the time you reach your floor," he assured Leonard. 

Once Leonard had cleared the door of the limousine, the doorman shut it smartly behind him and then bounded (like a fucking deer, thought Leonard) up the steps to what was ostensibly the front of the building judging by the way the shallow flight of stairs narrowed toward one point.

Leonard started to mount the steps and stopped dead halfway up. "There's no door. Is this some kind of joke?"

"There always a door, you just have to make the choice of _which_ door you want," the doorman said. His hand reached out toward the skin of the building and a golden glow spread across the building material, creating an opaque oblong figure on the surface.

"That's still not a door. It's some kind of projection. I'm going to ram my nose right into the wall, aren't I?" Leonard scoffed at the image in front of him.

The doorman shook his head. "You're a real pessimist, aren't you? And conservative."

Leonard turned and glared at the doorman. Who did this jerk think he was, making such a snap judgment about him? "Hell, no. I wouldn't have bought property in New York City if I were a timid man. One of these days something will cause property values to tank and I'll be stuck holding a piece of junk. Global warming practically ensures it. When this city floods, I want to be in the highest structure possible. Which is why I vote Democrat: green energy, reduce global warming, all that shit." 

The doorman coughed into his gloved fist, "Pessimist."

No tip. No way, no how was this ass getting a tip from him.

"Please. Just trust me. If you want to get to where you need to go, you have to choose a door." The doorman looked at him, his eyes widened in pleading.

"But there's nothing there!" said Leonard. He scrubbed his face with both hands in frustration. What was wrong with this imbecile?

The doorman took his wrist in one hand and all but dragged him toward the gold portal. "Touch it. Think happy thoughts."

"And then what? I fly off to Never-never Land?" Leonard demanded.

"Eureka, a pop-culture reference he understands at last." muttered the doorman.

"I heard that! I am so having you fired," Leonard fumed.

The doorman dropped Leonard's wrist to pull on the brim of his hat with both hands. "Touch the damn door!"

"IT'S NOT A DOOR!" Leonard shrieked, the words barely having time to come out of his mouth when Leonard felt a push on his back. 

He flew…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...and found himself stumbling through the front door of his aunt's house in Savannah. He shook his head, feeling a little dizzy. This was an extremely strange location to find himself as she didn't even live there anymore. She'd sold the house more than five years before and moved in with a cousin in Asheville, North Carolina after his uncle passed away. The house looked just the same as it had when he was seventeen years old and his parents, David and Eleanora McCoy, along with his sister, Donna, had died in that horrific accident on I-85 outside Atlanta. He ventured down the hallway toward the guest bedroom that had become his after the accident. Sidling in carefully, he could see that the bed even had the same wedding ring quilt on it that he had taken with him from his parents' house, the one that had always been folded over the end of their bed neatly every morning along with sheets and blankets tucked in with precise hospital corners.

"What the ever-loving fuck?" he muttered to the quiet room.

"I heard that, Leonard Horatio McCoy!" came a voice from behind him.

Leonard spun around and saw his Aunt May standing in the doorway. His mouth gaped open in disbelief. "Aunt May? What are you doing here?" It was only then that he noticed the subdued sound of the small TV she kept in the kitchen to entertain herself while she was cooking. It was tuned to her favorite pre-dinner show: the CBS evening news.

"Well, where else would I be, you daft boy?" It was definitely his Aunt May: her light brown hair was neatly tucked up in a roll at the back of her head, her make-up tastefully applied as usual, and she wore the pearl earrings she never seemed to be without. Over her dress, she had on the white lace apron she wore like a uniform when cooking. Aunt May clung to some southern stereotypes like a barnacle did to the keel of a ship. "And you know I don't hold with cursing, young man. It's so crass." She shook out her apron and smoothed it down with her hands. "Come to dinner, now. Your Uncle Bob is washing up, you should do the same. We're very excited by what came in the mail, today; it looks like your last two acceptance letters have arrived." Aunt May gave him an encouraging smile before she turned to head back to the dining room.

"Yeah. Yeah, I will, Aunt May. Be there in a tick." Leonard called after her. Still reeling a little, he raised a hand and scrubbed it over his hair in confusion. This didn't make any sense! How had it happened? That doorman had shoved him in the back, maybe he'd slipped him a mickey somehow, a drugged needle or something, and now he was hallucinating. He'd fucking sue when he got back, woke up, whatever. For now, all he could do was ride it out. 

Leonard felt a wave of guilt roll through him. He hadn't spent any time with Aunt May in years. Maybe that was why his mind chose this particular time and place to fixate on. When he snapped out of _whatever_ this was, he'd give her a call and see if she wanted to come up for a visit. Feeling satisfied with that particular decision he stopped in the bathroom and washed his hands for dinner. He didn't let the sight of a much younger face staring back at him from the mirror knock him off kilter. This was all in his imagination, right? Who wouldn't want to look a little younger than they really were?

With only a little trepidation about speaking with a man he'd thought dead for five years, Leonard walked into the kitchen and seated himself at the table. Uncle Bob looked just as he remembered him, too: slim and fit, like his wife, but a little more informally dressed in a polo shirt and khakis. Leonard felt himself choke up unexpectedly at the sight. So familiar and comforting, like the quilt on his bed. How had he let them drift so far out of his life? All he could do in reply to his uncle's greeting as he sat down was to nod his head in acknowledgement.

He got himself under control while Aunt May seated herself, gratefully finding it no problem to make his response at the end of the customary grace that Uncle Bob offered before they ate. The evening ritual calmed his mind and he found himself giving heartfelt thanks for having this chance to spend a little (more) time with his family than he felt he could rightfully expect. Strange to think he had an hallucination to thank for that.

Grace having been said, Uncle Bob looked at him over a bowl of peas as he passed them around. "Well, Leonard, ready for the big unveiling?"

"It's not that big a deal, Uncle Bob. Either I got in or I didn't. Besides, I've already been accepted by three other schools." The older (the real?) Leonard already knew that he'd chosen one out of these last two schools, even if he couldn't say so yet. They wouldn't know if he'd been accepted by either, or both of them, until he opened the envelopes. That knowledge weighed heavily on his stomach, now, making the mashed potatoes sit like cement in his stomach. Choosing Cal Poly over Ole Miss, or even Emory, had shocked his aunt and uncle back then. Everyone had expected him to become a doctor like his father and grandfather before him. He'd eschewed the legacy, so hurt that he wouldn't be able to work side-by-side with his father. All his careful plans, struck down by a drunk driver. What was the point, why shouldn't he just start over? Computer engineering in the '90s was a burgeoning field and he'd always been good in math and physics as much as he'd excelled in biology and chemistry.

Like a light bulb coming on over his head, he realized he _didn't_ have to disappoint his family completely this time around. He'd gone to school clear across the country, visits had been far and few between. Contact had ultimately tapered off to a Christmas card every year until even that had stopped once he started his own business, working through holidays and weekends to fill his time and staunch his self-imposed loneliness. 

He could change that, keep the relationship close that for one brief year had sustained him through his grief and loneliness, keep it from dwindling to nothing. They'd done so much for him, this was one way he could acknowledge it. And maybe that was one of the reasons he was going through this. He could finally take responsibility for the way he'd hurt these good people. Even if the amends were only in his head, it eased an ache in his heart that he'd repudiated for so many years.

Leonard couldn't stop himself from blurting out, "I'm going to Ole Miss."

"But you haven't even opened the letter from them, yet. It just arrived!" his aunt exclaimed, putting her fork down in shock.

Leonard shrugged. "I've been accepted everywhere else; it's a reasonable extrapolation that I've been accepted there, too." He played with his potatoes, mashing them down with his fork and then pushing them into a round cylindrical shape, back and forth. 

"Quit playing with your food, Lenny." His aunt chided. Lord, that made him feel so young; nobody had called him Lenny since he left his aunt and uncle's house.

"Yes, ma'am." Leonard put his fork down. He didn't think he could eat another bite, anyway. His decision left him energized and eager to start making plans.

And confused. Hallucination, time travel, alternate reality, he had no idea what was happening to him and how much longer it was going to last. But, now that he had made his decision, he was ready to throw himself into the illusion wholeheartedly. Not looking forward to reliving so many years, the uncertainty of his undergraduate years, the slog of graduate school, the terrifying leap into starting his own company, but he'd deal. And who's to say, this time around it could all turn out so different.

His uncle pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair. "Why Ole Miss, Leonard? If you're looking at pre-med, wouldn't Emory do just as well, and it's still in-state."

Leonard nodded. "I know, and I considered that. Dad went to Emory and it would be easy to go that route. But I don't want any of the professors there to do me any favors because they knew him. Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn't, but I want to stand on my own. Ole Miss is close enough that I can visit every holiday, I'll be home for the summers, it's a good compromise."

Uncle Bob studied his face carefully. "You've obviously spent some time thinking about that, and I have to respect that. I'm not so sure you're reasoning about the faculty at Emory is correct, but I understand the feeling of wanting to prove yourself on your own merits."

"Well, I think this planning is all well and good, but let's find out if he's been _accepted_ before we count our chickens, you two." Aunt May stood up and went to the counter where the day's mail was resting. She picked up the two heavy-weight envelopes with their school crests in the corner. His aunt fiddled with the envelopes a little, looking nervous, then walked over and handed them to Leonard.

He took the letters, studying them carefully. It was the last two he'd received all those years ago: Cal Poly and Ole Miss. He had barely bothered to look at the one from Ole Miss, his single-minded concentration and hopes had been solely focused on the letter from Cal Poly. Now, he could care less. This was the right decision, he knew it.

Leonard looked at the two letters and then picked out the one from Ole Miss. He handed it back to his aunt. "Why don't you do the honors, Aunt May?"

She took the envelope, turning it over in her hands. "Are you sure, Lenny? I know this a big deal to you, you've been haunting that mailbox for weeks, now."

"I'm sure. I want you to be the one to tell me I've been accepted. It would mean a lot to me." Leonard tipped his chin towards her. "Please."

Aunt May drew in a deep breath, then slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open. Her hands shook a little as she pulled the creamy paper out of the envelope and shook it out flat. She let out her breath slowly as she read over the first few paragraphs of the letter. A huge smile took over her face.

"You've been accepted! How wonderful!" She fluttered the letter in front of Leonard. "Read it, read it," she urged.

Leonard laughed. "It's alright, I trust that you know how to read. Well, that's it, then. I'm off to Ole Miss next fall."

"Are you sure you don't want to look at the other one? It's not too late to change your mind," Uncle Bob offered, although Leonard could see the trepidation in his face. His uncle had never let on the first time that Leonard's decision had given him so much pause. He and Aunt May had just accepted his decision stoically, inured to the thought that Cal Poly and nowhere else was where Leonard wanted to go; it had been all he talked about. He saw now just how badly he'd hurt them with his first decision.

Leonard picked up the other letter and studied it, rubbing his fingers over the smooth paper. He shook his head. Looking at his uncle, he tore the envelope in half without even opening it. 

Before he had a chance to realize what was happening a golden light spread out around him. The kitchen, his aunt and uncle, all faded from view as his vision whited out and he fell…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...and found himself tripping over his own feet into the arms of that GODDAMN DOORMAN THAT HAD PUSHED HIM, DRUGGED HIM OR WHATEVER.

"You! You nutjob! What did you do to me, drug me, spray me with a hallucinogen, stick me with a needle?" Leonard yanked himself out of the doorman's embrace, looking down at his coat as he dusted himself off and set everything to rights. "I am going to sue, I swear to God."

"Sir, I have no idea what you're talking about." The voice was deep, but it didn't have the rasp to it that the gold bedecked joker from earlier had. Leonard looked up from his fussing and saw that the young man who stood in front of him, while also dressed in gold (much less ornate, not as much bling), had straight black hair cut short around his ears, with bangs so straight they must have been measured with a T-square. He wore a flat pillbox of a hat square on his head; it looked as if it wouldn't dare to do anything so jaunty as tip to either side.

Leonard turned his head, checking all around for the troublemaker, but didn't see any sign of him. He turned back to stare suspiciously at the new doorman.

"What happened to the other dooman?" he demanded.

"I have been on duty here for the past seven hours, sir. I am not sure to whom you are referring, unless you mean the night doorman." The young man drew himself up even straighter than he was already standing, his arms moving from a position of parade rest to attention. Leonard could see that his words were starting to antagonize him.

"Seven hours! But I couldn't have been gone more than 45 minutes." Leonard looked around frantically; he could see that the quality of the light had changed, taken on a darker, deeper golden hue tinging toward pink. The limousine he'd arrived in had vacated the sweeping drive in front of the hotel. When he'd left, the bell hops had been retrieving his luggage from its trunk. He pulled his cuff back and looked at his watch, sure enough, it said 4:25 pm. His flight had landed at 1:37 pm, then the ride to the Enterprise had taken about an hour. Shit, if he'd missed that much time, was it even the same day?

"What day is it?" Leonard demanded of the new doorman.

If it was possible, the doorman had found a way to look down his nose at him without tipping his head back. "It is Sunday, December 22nd, 2013, Dr. McCoy."

"Would you quit callin' me Dr. McCoy? Turned down med school...for...Cal Poly," Leonard tapered off into a whisper, a sudden feeling of vertigo coming over him. Shit. SHIT. That damn doorman! How could he believe this? Had he changed something, in that dream, that hallucination? Was he suddenly suffering from dissociative personality disorder?

Leonard put a hand to his head. What did he remember of school? He remembered the campus at...Oxford, Mississippi, the medical center there. His hands shaking, he pulled out his wallet. The address listed was in Atlanta, Georgia. Yes, he'd moved back there after med school. His current condominium there had been snapped up quickly when he'd put it on the market to move to New York and was scheduled to close the 15th of January. He'd sold his share of the private practice to his partners. When Aunt May had moved to Asheville, he'd decided he needed a change of pace. Leonard had made more than enough money in vanity cosmetic surgery, his deft skills with the needle had made his hands a legend in the field; however, the level of satisfaction he'd received from the practice had fallen more and more with every year. New York was just as good a place to start over, especially with a generous grant to pursue skin graft techniques for extreme burn victims at Lenox Hill Hospital. 

But what about Cal Poly and engineering school? He had fading memories of watching others play sand volleyball on Pismo Beach, while he worked in a hamburger shack to make money for school. There were long nights spent alone in the engineering library. But those memories were losing the fight with the new memories of Ole Miss and Atlanta. The kaleidoscope of images in his head made him dizzy. How could he remember all this? Two lives, so very different, but so very real in his head.

It was becoming all too much to believe and Leonard felt himself listing to one side. He wanted to sit down on the stairs, but that would be undignified and dirty his overcoat.

"Help me inside, dammit. Can't you see I'm in shock?" Leonard castigated the stuffed-shirt doorman, wavering where he stood. 

The doorman placed one hand under Leonard's elbow, undoubtedly afraid of a legal suit more than out of compassion, leading him toward the revolving door that opened onto a spacious lobby. The floor was paved in a reddish-orange marble, while the walls looked transparent from one aspect but alternatively took on a silvery sheen at other angles that reflected the hues found in the marble. The lower half of the lobby looked almost as if it were on fire. Maybe Leonard had fallen afoul of Lucifer and he was being led to Hell. 

Leonard stopped dead. He turned his head and glared at the doorman. "Where'd that door come from? It wasn't there before. Is this another trick?"

One of the doorman's eyebrows flew up at Leonard's accusation. "This is the front entrance to the Enterprise. It has been there since the building's completion."

"It wasn't there two hours ago," Leonard protested. 

"I assure you, Dr. McCoy, that the building plans will indeed indicate this door has been here since the design implementation." If anything, the doorman's back grew even stiffer. Any stiffer and he'd fall over backward and take Leonard with him. 

Leonard gave in and took a step forward, practically dragging the doorman with him. "Where now, then?"

"This way, Dr. McCoy. We have a physician's assistant on staff for emergencies." The doorman accelerated his pace to keep up with Leonard and directed him toward a small office down a hallway to one side of the concierge's desk.

"I know that," Leonard pointed out acerbically. "It was in the marketing materials. One of the reasons I chose this place; can't have too many medical professionals around. Hangnail could go gangrene if not treated right; pigeon land on your head and the next thing you know--West Nile virus."

Leonard finished up his rant just as they arrived at the door of the PA's office. The doorman knocked and after a brief wait, the door was answered by a middle-aged woman wearing tan slacks with a matching brown and cream sweater set, her reading glasses perched on her graying, blonde hair.

"What have we got here, Mr. Spock?" she queried the doorman. "Another fainter?"

"It appears so, Dr. Chapel. This is Dr. Leonard McCoy. He seems to have had an encounter with The Doorman." Mr. Spock steered Leonard toward a chair stationed along the wall, next to a desk holding a monitor and keyboard. Leonard could see the entry form for patient information displayed on the screen. A sphygmomanometer cuff lay on the counter next to the monitor.

Leonard resisted sitting down, when he understood the gist of the exchange between Dr. Chapel and Mr. Spock. "Wait. Another fainter? You get those a lot? And it's got to do with that creepy doorman with the top hat and the whistle?" Leonard spoke so fast, he forgot to breathe. He felt himself swaying on his feet, chills sweeping up and down his body leaving sweat behind, while his vision started to gray out. "How, how--"

"Dr. McCoy, sit down or I will make you sit down." Chapel stood right in front of him, looking up at him with her lips thinned and face set in a determined expression. He looked at her, feeling helpless to understand _anything_. It was useless.

He collapsed into the chair behind him. Dimly, he heard Dr. Chapel tell Mr. Spock that he could go back to his post, she'd take care of 'the fainter' the way they always did. He wondered vaguely what way that was.

Leonard found out quickly, when a paper cup was thrust into his hand, someone else's hand supporting his while the cup was raised to his lips and tilted. He would have taken a huge swallow, if the smell hadn't reached his nose before the liquid actually touched his lips. So instead of choking and coughing when he tried to gulp it, he sipped the whiskey instead, the alcohol igniting a nice glow in his stomach.

"Is this the way you treat all your fainters?" he asked, letting out a huge sigh after the whiskey had settled in his stomach. Becoming a little more alert, he took in the fact that Dr. Chapel had seated herself on a short wheeled stool that she had rolled to a point just to the side of him and in front of the monitor. She was entering some information into the patient information form.

Dr. Chapel chuckled. "We've found that a little jolt often resets the system, yes. It's usually required after the first time a tenant meets The Doorman."

"Why are you talking like you only have one doorman? Clearly you don't as Mr. Spock is one of them," Leonard complained, his mouth turning down at both sides.

"Ah, that is because there is only one Doorman who matters. A little like there is only one Doctor." She took back the paper cup that Leonard had completely forgotten he was holding. He kind of wanted it back, but Dr. Chapel can be a little frightening.

"And who is this Doctor everyone seems to be carping on about?" Leonard shook his head in frustration.

"Exactly, Doctor Who," Dr. Chapel said, nodding, as if they were both in agreement. 

"Which doctor?" Leonard wanted to shout, but grit his teeth and forced himself to speak the words in a level tone of voice. This was rapidly becoming the 21st century version of Abbott and Costello's "Who's on first" routine.

Dr. Chapel finally started to realize they weren't on the same page _at all_. "Ah, you've been culturally deprived, I see. No children, I'd guess. Doctor Who is a children's show on the BBC. The Doctor is a time-traveler from another planet, a Time Lord, and he is the only one left. Leaving him as the singular: The Doctor."

Leonard looked down at his feet, swallowing hard. "Oh. My wife and had didn't have children before she passed away." Leonard pondered Dr. Chapel's explanation, pushing down the lingering pain of Jocelyn's loss. He paused as the words exited his mouth. Those words both felt wrong but very right, even if painful, at the same time. He was so tired of remembering. "So, there is a singular doorman: The Doorman."

Silence reigned for a short bit while Leonard digested the idea.

"But who the hell is he?" Leonard finally blurted out. "How does he do what he does?"

Dr. Chapel shrugged. "Nobody knows either of those things. We only know of him from the reports of people who have had the same experiences as you."

Leonard rubbed his forehead with his hand. He just couldn't wrap his mind around this right now. Maybe a good night's sleep would straighten everything out in his head and he'd know just who he was when he woke up. Was he the Leonard McCoy that owned his own computer security business or was he a well-known plastic surgeon with more money than time on his hands?

"Dr. Chapel, I think it's time for me to call it a night. Could you have someone show me to my suite?" He could hear the lingering bewilderment in his voice. All he wanted at this point was to go up to his rooms, call his Aunt May to confirm her flight reservations for Tuesday, and go to bed. Oh, his aunt. When did he arrange this trip? He took a deep breath before he had a chance to get dizzy and start hyperventilating. "And could you find me a bottle of aspirin? The whole thing might be enough to get rid of the headache this is all giving me."

"I've got some Tylenol PM, if you'd prefer? I'm guessing you might appreciate a little help getting to sleep tonight." After Leonard had nodded his assent, Dr. Chapel opened up a drawer and took out a bottle, shook two tabs out and gave them to him to hold. Scooting her wheeled stool over to a water cooler in one corner of the room, she filled a new paper cup with water and presented it to him. 

Leonard stared at the pills in his hand, wondering if this would all seem like a dream in the morning, then knocked back the pills. Oblivion, he thought, could not come quickly enough.


	2. In Which Leonard Is Starting to Figure Out Who Is Who

Jim reclined along the length of the mahogany-colored sofa with a few of its subdued pillows stuffed behind his back, one leg outstretched, the other knee bent up as a resting place for the tumbler of scotch he held in one hand. The pillows were more than what had been available before he'd set off on that day's endeavor. The penthouse was finally starting to gain some personality. The previously bare walls held some black and white photographs of cityscapes, now, and a (so '80s, it hurt) ficus tree was tucked discreetly in one corner. A restrained sense of style for a restrained man, Jim mused.

Today had been exhausting. McCoy, the grumpy cuss, just didn't want to be guided anywhere. None of his persuasive wiles (his smile the best weapon in his arsenal, in his opinion) could convince the man to follow Jim's lead. Admittedly, he could have made the door look more door-like, but he was The Doorman. What good was having any power over time and space if you couldn't show off a little? 

Taking a sip of scotch and rolling it around in his mouth, he savored the smokey burn before letting it slide down his throat where it settled with a lovely bloom of heat that took away a little of the day's slings and arrows. Closing his eyes in appreciation, he opened them after a few cleansing breaths and picked up the dossier on the sarcastic skeptic that had resisted his help earlier in the day. 

True to his endeavors, the updated profile now described Leonard McCoy as one of the pre-eminent plastic surgeons in the country, said to have the hands of a sculptor (well, he supposed that was one way to interpret 'hands of a surgeon'; the little push that his emissary, Emony, was supposed to give him hadn't totally failed.) Scanning the dossier, Jim frowned at the changed statistics listed for the doctor: widower, childless, no pets, parents and one sibling deceased, no current romantic relationship and very few attempts at anything close to serious since his wife had passed away at a relatively young age. The only thing keeping him from total isolation from human contact, other than patients and colleagues, was his continuing relationship with his widowed aunt. Jim gave an approving nod that there was at least one fulfilling relationship in McCoy's life.

Various pictures of Leonard still showed a man of relatively solitary pursuits: reading a newspaper outside of a coffee shop - alone; buying a theatre ticket - for one. Those things hadn't changed. Some solitary pursuits were to be expected; everyone needed time to recharge occasionally. But now there was evidence that he was starting to participate in activities that required contact with the general population. The stack of pictures showed him exercising at the local recreational facility on a regular basis - sometimes signing up to play singles racquetball, but not with any regular partner; the occasional after-work happy hour with some of his colleagues, very few of whom he spent any significant time with in private life, however.

The individual headshots, though, still showed a face full of reservation and defensiveness. He didn't know why, but it hurt Jim to see the continuing pinched look around the eyes. Understanding came with the last photograph. At the bottom of the stack was a much older picture of McCoy with an absolutely gorgeous young woman: light brown hair streaked blonde by the sun, bright blue eyes crinkled in laughter, a cupid's bow mouth stretched wide over straight, strong teeth. She's sitting on Leonard's lap, leaning back against his chest with his arms holding her against him, his mouth pressed against her ear with a smile on his face. Their love made Jim ache to see it. He's starting to sympathize with McCoy, even as he acknowledged that it was what had set McCoy on his current path. 

It's a tough call, whether there was more Jim could do for him. McCoy had made attempts to bind himself to the world, but was still allowing pain and loss to pull him away. Every time he stepped forward two paces, McCoy's let himself slide back one step. What little gathering momentum he had had earlier in life was slowly being lost to inertia. And he might still be lost to the void of Oblivion if Jim doesn't find the right door for McCoy. 

Jim realized he was taking a much more personal interest in this client, for reasons he couldn't really explain to himself. The temptation to insert himself into McCoy's side-trips was getting harder and harder to resist, something totally forbidden. It was like calling to like, he supposed. Jim had been so lonely for so long, it was becoming a compulsion to prevent that from happening to McCoy. So, he didn't get it right this time, but, Jim assured himself, tomorrow was another day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December 23rd

Leonard stepped out of the taxicab, pulling his gloves out of his pockets. It wasn't that much colder than Atlanta right now; winter storm Electra had dipped pretty far south and left quite a nip in the air. The Christmas decorations lining the streets and plastered all over the surrounding buildings lent the city an air of familiarity that went with the season. Aunt May would enjoy them, even if they weren't really his cup of tea; his enjoyment would reside in being able to give Aunt May the treat of a trip to New York City.

Taking the opportunity to get his feet under him, the travel having left him feeling a little unbalanced, he put one hand on the roof of the cab to shake off the lingering vertigo the surging movement of the train had left him with. He loved riding the Crescent from Atlanta to New York; as far as he was concerned trains were a more elegant way to travel than airplanes (besides which, he really couldn't stand airplanes--phobic as hell.) Getting a glimpse of the towering structure in front of him as he steadied himself, he looked at it in amazement. The building was even more magnificent than it had appeared in the brochures and the photos he'd perused online.

Tipping his head back, he took in the fantastical view in front of him. Something about the sight struck him with a nebulous sense of déjà vu. He put one hand up to his head, realizing that the coloring of the exterior surfaces did indeed combine to present the image of a rocket ship, the so-called Enterprise, exactly as described in the marketing materials. Probably some cutesy effort to mooch off the reputation of that old '60s science fiction show, _Star Trek_. Whatever, it was a very striking building regardless. And he couldn't fault their decision making process. Everyone was into using nostalgia to sell things; if it worked, who was he to knock it?

Leonard's gaze eventually descended back to ground level, where he found himself confronted on the other side of the car door by a person dressed in a short gold silk brocade jacket with a Nehru collar and tight, form-fitting black pants. He had shiny black boots on that came up to his knees. On his head was the most incongruous hat he'd ever seen--who wore a fez anymore? Around his neck hung a thick black lanyard from which a large golden key depended. Leonard found the outfit more than a trifle bizarre, but there was no accounting for taste when it came to the uniforms that various establishments foisted on their employees. Poor sucker. He wasn't sure, but he thought it was another attempt to batten onto the _Star Trek_ phenomenon by making the uniform look like something the captain of the ship, Robert April, had worn in one episode.

"Welcome to the Enterprise, Dr. McCoy. I am The Doorman." The figure tipped his hat with an over-the-top flourish, rolling it down one arm and back up the other to seat it jauntily on his head once more. His burnished blonde hair shone in the sun as he did so. Baby blue eyes that drew his like a magnet and an inviting smile that only dimpled on one side practically begged for a smile in return. Leonard looked at him with no little trepidation at the slightly manic grin (professional opinion aside), but after a very brief internal struggle as to whether he would be contributing to the individual's mania, he returned a small smile of his own. The exuberance could perhaps be blamed on the season. He hoped. Leonard hadn't done a rotation in psychiatry, so he had no true professional opinion on the matter. 

Still, he'd hold any uninformed diagnosis in reserve until proven otherwise. A fleeting thought crossed his mind that the doorman was actually pretty damn attractive--a thought that spooked him pretty deeply, as he hadn't been interested in dating in what seemed like a glacial age. His response to the greeting was probably a little more acerbic than he'd originally intended in retaliation to his own wayward thoughts.

"I think I could have figured that out on my own, thanks. After all, you're the one holding my door, aren't you?" Leonard struggled to keep a straight face and not roll his eyes in exasperation at the obvious.

The doorman's smile dimmed a little, but still held more wattage than Leonard felt his eyes could cope with for an extended period of time.

"Oh, I'm not just any doorman, Dr. McCoy, I am The Doorman. Like The Doctor," he offered. At this point, Leonard could see the cheerfulness was slightly manufactured.

Leonard snorted. "That must be where the fez comes from. Capitalize your name, too, I'm guessing." 

"Well, it goes with the territory." By now, The Doorman's chin had taken on a pugnacious tilt, the smile wilting like a flower left unwatered in the July sun.

Leonard cocked his head to one side, starting to feel a little suspicious that this was all a put-on. Some juvenile prank a group of kids were perpetrating on residents of the Enterprise. Maybe the real doorman was on break, or called away for some reason.

"Listen, kid. Why don't you just go get someone who works here that can carry my bags up to my room, okay? No harm, no foul. Besides, it's goddamn cold out here. You shouldn't keep a customer waiting." He suppressed a shiver and tugged his collar up closer around his ears. 

"Fine." The doorman flipped a negligent hand at Leonard, gesturing toward the steps that led up to the facade of the building. "If you would be so kind, Dr. McCoy. I'll have a bell hop deliver your bags immediately." He plucked the key off his chest and blew a piercing whistle that shivered Leonard's teeth like a dentist's drill. Didn't do his eardrums any good, either. Leonard would be having a WORD with the management.

Two young men, both dressed in outfits similar to The Doorman's except with red pants instead of black, ran towards the trunk of the taxicab. "Pavel and Hikaru, make sure this gentleman is well taken care of."

The kid with dark hair waved a sloppy salute at The Doorman, while the slight one with curly hair (kid couldn't have been more than seventeen and so underfed that Leonard was afraid that he'd collapse under the weight of his luggage) snapped off a crisp salute. "Aye-aye, Keptin!"

"Oh, for Pete's sake," Leonard ground out. "Would you and your co-conspirators pick a trope and stick to it? First it's Doctor Who and now it's Star Trek. Next thing you know that Trekkie doctor is going to show up, too. What do they call him--Bones? Stupid name for a doctor. And don't get me started on the Andorian with blue skin and those...tentacle things. They give me the heebie-jeebies."

Leonard stomped up the steps to the front entrance, stopping abruptly when he realized there was no door or other form of entrance into the building. He whirled around to face The Doorman.

"So, what, I gotta wait on a transporter pad to get beamed inside?" Leonard narrowed his eyes in a glare that should have lit The Doorman's fez on fire. "This is going a little too far, just to suck me into your delusion. Show me the entrance and then get lost." He stomped his foot and spun around to face the exterior of the building where logic dictated a door should _be_.

From behind him, Leonard heard the snap of The Doorman's fingers and two blue wooden doors abruptly appeared with the words POLICE BOX over them. The doors swung inward on the wall in front of him. TARDIS blue, his mind provided. Leonard gave a start, stepping back with one foot, suddenly leery of jumping out of the frying pan of The Doorman's delusions to the fires of full-blown psychosis.

"Oh, c'mon, now. More smoke and mirrors? I'm sure the local high school wants their theatre props back." Leonard kept backing up until he bumped into a solid chest behind him. Two hands latched onto his arms tightly, just above the elbow and started steering him forward.

"I was really hoping we wouldn't have to go through this again. You are one suspicious bastard," the Doorman breathed into Leonard's ear. The heated puffs of air sent shivers up and down his spine. He shook his head. Why was this happening? He would _not_ let himself feel attracted to this crack-headed man.

"But, what's in there?" asked Leonard, trying to get himself back on track. "It could be danger and darkness! You're insane. I am so going to sue the pants off your employers." He dug his heels into the pavement as hard as he could, but his feet just kept bumping slowly forward toward the gaping doors. A insubstantial green light flickered and flared on the inside, but illuminated nothing discernable to Leonard.

The disgustingly gleeful voice of The Doorman informed him, "Sorry, but I'm what you could call an independent contractor, and not for the management of the Enterprise." 

By now Leonard had reached the threshold of the door and was starfished over it with his feet and arms outspread, clinging onto the door jamb for dear life.

"HELP, MURDER, POLICE," he screamed at the top of his voice.

"It's not a real police box, dummy; you should know that. And it's not going to help," The Doorman muttered with a grunt and gave Leonard one last hearty shove with his shoulder. "This is your. goddamn. destiny. Now, get _in_ there."

"Oh, fuck me flying," was the last thing Leonard said as he lost his tenuous grip on the door jamb and he tripped over the threshold. A trailing voice followed him into the vertiginous luminescence. 

"Geronimo!"

He flew….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...and landed on his knees with a jolt, sliding to a halt next to a hospital bed. A chair clattered to the ground behind him. The sight of the utilitarian bed with its rails and bland hospital covers filled him with foreboding. He left his gaze trained on the linoleum under his blue clad knees (scrubs, he was in scrubs.) If he didn't look up, it wasn't real, right? But, was any of this real? Just a few seconds ago, he'd been in New York City, now he was...here. Please, don't be here, he begged to anyone who would listen. If this was a nightmare, he wanted wake up RIGHT NOW.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he lifted his head to identify the occupant of the bed. The sight struck him like a dagger to the heart.

He slammed his eyes shut against the tears that bloomed suddenly, viciously against his will. This shouldn't be happening to him; what had he done to deserve this? He wanted to beat his fists on the floor and scream until either his hands or his throat bled. Not again, not again. 

"Jocelyn," he sobbed out. 

"What's the matter, Len?" soft hands came down on either side of his face and lifted it up. "Has something happened to your Aunt May, Uncle Bob? Are they okay?"

Leonard could hear the fear in her voice and it wasn't for herself. He opened his eyes and saw Jocelyn's blue eyes looking down at him, searching his face for some clue to his fear and upset. He took a closer look at her now that he couldn't get away from her perceptive gaze. This wasn't Jocelyn at the very end, this was a lively, confident, intelligent young woman. He looked around the room, at the lack of equipment that measured her vitals or helped sustain bodily functions. 

This was before. The tears in his eyes didn't abate at the realization. Now he almost wanted to cry in relief. 

"They're fine, dollface." The endearment came naturally, like it was only yesterday he'd seen her last, not eight years ago as he cried over her casket. He turned his head into his bicep and used the sleeve of his scrub top to wipe the tears away. "I...fell out of my chair, had a nightmare."

"Oh, Len. Maybe you should try a different rotation. Oncology isn't for everyone, you know." Jocelyn pet his hair, combing her fingers through the dark strands and tucking a lock behind his ear. It felt strange. The short, spiked haircut he'd been wearing for so many years had morphed back to the shaggier cut of his residency, with bangs that swept from his widow's peak across his forehead. He leaned into the touch; he'd missed this, her hands, her compassion, all of her, so damn much for what seemed like forever.

Leonard realized he'd been panting, his breath whistling in and out, as if he'd been running far, far away from the terror he knew was yet to happen. The oncology rotation was the first one he'd done as a resident. It was also when Jocelyn had been diagnosed with early onset Huntington's disease.

That meant while Jocelyn wasn't safe, at this point she was still the Jocelyn he'd married, not the wasted, withdrawn, uncommunicative shell she'd been before Huntington's had taken her for good. They still had four years to fight the good fight. Which set of tests was she in the hospital for this time? It didn't really matter, there wasn't much he could do right now that would make a difference.

"I think you're right, Joce; this onc rotation just isn't working. I know I can help, but seeing those kids--," his voice cracked on the last word. Damn, he hated seeing kids succumbing to the ravages of cancer. They were so damn stoic, but they were braver than he could ever be--that he knew he had been in the face of Joce's illness. 

Leonard paused in thought… _Joce's illness_. He'd gone into plastic surgery after this rotation, because he'd felt so helpless in the face of his inability to accept watching others suffer. No one died from liposuction. It was a personal weakness he despised in himself, one that had made him consider going back to engineering school, so he'd ultimately chosen a specialty that had no chance of ever causing him heartache. 

But after Jocelyn died, he'd closed himself off to anyone's pain but his own, regardless. At that point, he could have done _anything_ and it wouldn't have mattered. Maybe this was his chance to make things right, like he had with Aunt May and Uncle Bob when he turned down Cal Poly.

No, wait. He'd never turned down Cal Poly, that's where he'd gone to engineering school. Or had he? Leonard shook his head, suddenly feeling a little dizzy. Where were all these memories coming from? He'd accepted that The Doorman had thrown a whammy on him, some kind of hallucinogen in that green miasma, but now he was remembering things that had never happened. Goddammit, his thoughts just kept circling around this same central point. What could he do to make it better?

He struggled to think, options chasing their way around in his brain like a Rube Goldberg puzzle of ball bearings and slides and catapults cascading toward one final solution. That letter from Cal Poly, he'd torn it up and things had...changed. They had, he was starting to remember it more clearly.

This time, he'd switched from oncology to plastic surgery. But it was an _impersonal_ choice. He'd been able to remain aloof and untroubled by personal suffering. During his first encounter with The Doorman, when he'd had a second chance, he'd chosen Ole Miss from the heart.

"Jocelyn. JOCE. I know exactly which rotation I'm going to ask for next. Dr. Puri is opening up a position in neurology, doing research on neural grafting techniques. Do you know what this could mean?" Leonard looked at her, a smile on his face, tears once more standing in his eyes, his heart fiercely jubilant in knowing this was the completely _right_ choice.

Jocelyn's face broke into a beatific smile. "Oh, Len, honey, if anyone can do it, you can." She pulled him toward her and as he leaned over the bed to kiss her, the room filled with a nacreous green light. And he fell…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...and found himself on his knees, again. This time on a gray-veined red marble floor that he didn't recognize. Fuck, that hurt. And he was going to hurt that goddamn Doorman if he ever caught sight of him again. Again, again, how many _times_ again? God, his head hurt.

Leonard sat back on his heels and raised one gloved hand to his head, holding it steady. He felt like a bobble head doll in the back seat of some yahoo's car. Or that he'd just come off a rollercoaster with a 7G turn--dangerous things, scramble your brains, spinal damage, equipment failure, DEATH. He shuddered. And too damn high up off the ground.

He came to himself a little more when a man (black hair cut straight across his forehead, impassive expression, why was this familiar?) wearing a nattily-cut blue suit with gold piping and a black cravat (should have looked ridiculous, but managed to come off as magisterial) came toward him, his steps swift, but not giving a sense of undue urgency. This was just the way the man walked. 

"May I help you, Dr. McCoy?" Leonard tipped his head up to reply, and started back a little, nearly falling on his ass. It was that doorman. But not The Doorman. Was he a doorman? The outfit looked different than yesterday. But he hadn't _been_ here yesterday; his train had arrived _today _. He was going insane. No, that was The Doorman. Was it contagious?__

__"What day is it?" Leonard demanded of the possible-doorman. Yes, no, oh, he didn't know anymore._ _

__In a gesture that was all too familiar, the probably-not-a-doorman had found a way to look down his nose at him without tipping his head back. "It is Monday, December 23rd, 2013, Dr. McCoy."_ _

__Well, that was a relief, at least he still knew what day it was._ _

__"Obama still president?" That question provoked a raised eyebrow that nearly flew off the couldn't-be-a-doorman's face._ _

__"Indeed." For someone so normally (how would he know that if he hadn't seen it before?) impassive looking, the word itself was imbued with scorn. Well, let's see if he could return the favor._ _

__Leonard stuck a hand out toward the something-other-than-a-doorman. "You can help me up off the floor, for one, if that's not too obvious for you. And maybe consider putting some non-skid runner down before someone sues the Dolce and Gabbana off the owners of this place."_ _

__"I am sorry for your mishap, Dr. McCoy, but you did not ingress in the normal manner. I trust, however, that you have come to no harm. I would be happy to escort you to our medical facility, if you feel it necessary." The whatever-he-was-that-wasn't-a-doorman obligingly bent at the waist and presented a slender, but very strong, nearly unnaturally so, hand to assist Leonard back on his feet._ _

__Upright again, he brushed off his pants and the lower part of his coat where it had dragged on the floor. His task complete, he looked at the person who'd helped him (he still didn't know who or what he was and all the permutations of doorman were getting old) and frowned at the information that he had not entered the building through the front entrance. Or if he did, he hadn't done it on his feet. He turned to look at the entrance and wasn't at all shocked to see that there was a revolving glass door in the place of the creaky looking blue wooden doors of earlier. Bemused, maybe, but not shocked._ _

__"This place is a real piece of work isn't it? Like some kind of manifest Klein bottle or something," Leonard observed. "Doors that appear and disappear. Doormen that do the same. Say, who are you, anyway? I would have sworn I met you out front in a gold outfit earlier…" he trailed off. No, that was yesterday._ _

__The tangled thoughts running through his head paused briefly when his companion replied. "I am Mr. Spock, the concierge of the Enterprise Residential Tower. I have never been employed here as a doorman, I assure you."_ _

__Leonard raised one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course he was._ _

__"What about that nutjob that was out front, earlier? The one with the fez who thought he was Doctor Who? I suppose he's a figment of my imagination, too?" He didn't know why he bothered to ask. Maybe there had been something funky in the mushroom soup on the train. He had to have something to blame all this...lunacy...on. He felt like Alice-in-fucking-Wonderland._ _

__"Ah, you met The Doorman. That is a rare occurrence; you are one of only a few to encounter him." Mr. Spock sounded less than enthused with the happenstance. Leonard wondered if everyone who inhabited the tower experienced the same thing or if he was a special snowflake?_ _

__"When you say rare, how rare is it?" Leonard turned back toward the cathedral-like expanse of the lobby, the concierge turning with him. He absent-mindedly scanned from one side to the other, taking in the reception desk, the futuristic-looking chairs with their smooth, Eames style profile in bold colors that both contrasted with and complemented the bright marble flooring. A hallway off to the left led to a bank of elevators; another hallway appeared to lead to business offices. There was something (someone?) else he needed to find, if he could remember what it was. His musing was interrupted by Mr. Spock and Leonard turned his thoughts back to his question about The Doorman._ _

__"No one is sure. There is conjecture that most people who have the..fortune...to meet him do not mention it for fear of repercussion." Mr. Spock kept his voice impassive, but the hesitation in it told Leonard what he needed to know. There was no way he was letting the men in little white coats take him away right now. Or ever. But right now was important because he had to pick Aunt May and Joanna up at the airport, tomorrow._ _

__The headache slammed into him once more as his brain sought to sort out the new influx of memories. Christ, he was getting tired of this._ _

__He should know the name Joanna. No, the name was Jocelyn. His former wife's name was Jocelyn. Oh, his former wife. Not his late wife. Leonard caught his breath. Jocelyn had been saved! How? How?_ _

__Leonard put a hand out to Mr. Spock and latched onto the sleeve of his suit, crumpling the fabric in a spasming fist. "A doctor, you have a doctor on staff, right?"_ _

__"That is correct. Dr. Chapel is on staff to provide medical services for the residents. Did you need to see her? Her office is this way." Leonard let Mr. Spock lead him toward an office in the hallway to the right. Fortunately, Mr. Spock didn't ask him to remove his hand from his arm as Leonard had suddenly become very sensitive to the light coming in from the high windows encircling the lobby. The lowering sun (when had it become so late? he'd arrived mid-morning) seemed to stab right into him without any shades on the windows to mitigate the glare and he could barely keep his eyes open against it._ _

__"If you would be so kind," Leonard gritted out between clenched teeth. He hoped this Dr. Chapel had some extra-extra heavy-duty aspirin on hand. Either that, or a trepanning drill to let out whatever evil vapors The Doorman had subjected him to. He couldn't be sick while Aunt May and Joanna were visiting; not over Christmas of all times._ _

__He could have laid down and wept when he realized who Joanna was. His daughter! How could he forget (remember) his daughter? Oh, precious child. When Jocelyn was declared in remission of Huntington's disease (who went into remission? no one, but she had after he helped Dr. Puri perfect the neural graft treatment, along with an experimental gene therapy he'd pushed for), they'd rushed to make true their hopes of having a family as soon as possible in case they were wrong. Their baby girl was worth the risk to Jocelyn and he'd agreed wholeheartedly._ _

__Leonard let go of Mr. Spock's sleeve as they reached the door to Dr. Chapel's office. After a brisk knock and a bid to enter, Leonard practically threw himself into the office and into the chair he knew was placed against the wall, next to a counter holding a computer keyboard and monitor. As soon as he was seated he fumbled in his inner coat pocket and drew out his wallet. Opening it, he scrabbled through the plastic picture sleeves inside, stopping at last at the photo of a gap-toothed pixie with big hazel eyes and golden freckles. Her light brown hair was pulled up in a ponytail with wisps sticking out around her face. Leonard ran his fingers over the picture. God, she was beautiful, his Joanna._ _

__A women in tan slacks with a matching brown and cream sweater stood as he entered. She looked over to Mr. Spock and raised one eyebrow. "The Doorman strikes again?"_ _

__"Affirmative," replied Mr. Spock. He turned to address Leonard. "If there is nothing else, Dr. McCoy, I will leave you in Dr. Chapel's capable hands."_ _

__"Fine, it's fine." Leonard flapped a hand in dismissal at the stiff-necked concierge, then looked up at Dr. Chapel with pleading eyes. "Aspirin. The strongest ya got. Barring that, whiskey, and it don't even gotta be from Tennessee." Somehow, he thought that was something she would definitely have on hand. He was so punchy, his accent was slipping out; something he'd tried to eradicate so he would be more understandable in front of highly diverse conference attendees. Didn't do to for someone to mistake memory for mammary; get some real strange looks at neurology seminars if they think you're talking about breasts._ _

__Dr. Chapel humphed at him in surprise, but turned toward a drawer in a file cabinet to one side of the counter and pulled out a bottle of golden liquid. She offered it to him silently, along with a paper cup, which he took from her in order to splash a hefty shot into the cup. Hoisting it up toward her in salute, Leonard knocked it back without blinking. One brief cough and he drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly._ _

__"My life is like something from Doctor Who, including some crack-brained joker in a fez who thinks he's the character the Doctor is modeled on. This sound familiar to you?" He peered into Chapel's, Dr. Chapel's, eyes seeking some kind of validation that he wasn't going around the bend. Please, not with Aunt May and Joanna due in tomorrow._ _

__Dr. Chapel gave him a strained smile. "The Doorman is, admittedly, a bit farther to one side of the standard deviation for normal behavior. However, from what people will admit to, we have never found him to be...intentionally malicious. Most of his subjects who are willing to speak about their experiences seem to think he left them better off, even if they can't remember why."_ _

__"They're a bunch of liars," Leonard scoffed. "May well be better off, but they remember. They remember too much. And no one wants to admit that; it's flat unbelievable." He rolled the bottle of whiskey between the palms of his hands in agitation._ _

__Dr. Chapel shook her head. "No, they honestly don't remember. Just as you won't remember, tomorrow."_ _

__Leonard jerked his head back sharply at her words. "That's not true. I remembered something this morning, or maybe it was more that I recognized things without understanding why, but that's a form of remembering. There was some bleed-through."_ _

__"That may be true," she admitted, "but the details fade until the recipient finally incorporates things into their current reality."_ _

__Picking up the paper cup, Leonard looked at Dr. Chapel and tilted his head at it, asking permission to pour himself another shot. He did so, upon receiving her unvoiced agreement, then handed the bottle back to her. She took the bottle and restored it to its place in the filing cabinet._ _

__Leonard sipped the whiskey this time. It made a pleasant burn in his stomach, helped chase away the chills he was feeling as he learned more and more about The Doorman. "But, how do you know so much about all this? If you've never been favored by The Doorman's talents? Or have you?"_ _

__Dr. Chapel looked down at her hands, inspecting her fingernails. She looked back up at him and sighed. "Yes, most of us who work here have at one time or another encountered The Doorman. Sometimes as a recipient of his talents and sometimes to help ease those whose experiences haven't helped them achieve equilibrium yet."_ _

__"So you're saying I haven't achieved that vaunted state yet? I'm, what, out of balance?" Leonard squinted at her, the skeptic in him even further from allayed than he was before._ _

__She nodded. "Possibly. We won't know until tomorrow."_ _

__Leonard was finding it more and more unbelievable when spoken about aloud, but he knew what he had seen and felt, and it had all been so real and he was _sure_ he'd remember tomorrow. He didn't want to forget; he was afraid if he forgot he'd go back to being that lonely, isolated person that had been so dead inside. _ _

__"I don't want to forget," he whispered._ _

__Dr. Chapel reached out and touched the hand he had lying on one knee. "But you're better off than you were before. You _know_ that, right?" She took her hand back and clenched it over her heart. "In here. It never goes away, even if you don't remember."_ _

__Leonard cleared his throat. "Speaking from personal experience, Doc?"_ _

__One corner of her mouth lifted up in a wry smile. "As Mr. Spock would say--indeed."_ _

__Finishing off the last of the whiskey, Leonard tossed his empty cup into the waste bin next to him. "I guess this is something I'll have to take on faith, since I don't appear to have much choice. Now, I really need to get some sleep. You got anything in here that can help with that? Other than medicinal spirits?"_ _

__Dr. Chapel reached into a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Tylenol PM. Leonard held out one hand and she shook two tablets out onto his palm. He tossed them back and swallowed them dry._ _

__"Maybe I'll see you again tomorrow, and remember, or maybe not. Not sure it's been a pleasure, but I surely thank you for being honest with me." Leonard stood up and waited for her to do the same, then shook her hand. "Thank you for your time, Nurse Chapel." He cocked his head and opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. Where had that come from? "Sorry about that, things are still a little twisted in there." Leonard lifted a hand and tapped on his head with one finger._ _

__Dr. Chapel gave him a strained smile that twitched at one corner. "That's understandable. You go get yourself some rest, Dr. McCoy; you'll feel better in the morning." She patted him on the back and saw him out the door. He didn't look back as he walked down the hall to the lobby and the reception desk. Sleep sounded real good right now, but he hoped it came without dreams._ _


	3. In Which Leonard Still Doesn't Know Who Done It

Jim jerked his head up from where it was smashed into the pillow, a small puddle of drool by the corner of his mouth. The sun was coming in the window much too loudly for the state of his hangover. It was totally unfair that as a semi-immortal being, he was still subject to them. He pushed himself up on his elbows and pressed his fingertips to his eyelids. Fuck, he needed some aspirin.

Rolling off the sofa, he stumbled to his feet and looked around the room with bleary eyes. It wasn't just the sunlight coming in the windows that made his head pound, it was the amplification of all that light reflected off what looked like half the tinsel in the northern hemisphere that had been draped over the Christmas tree in the corner. Despite the pain in his head and his watering eyes (from the hangover?), he couldn't keep his eyes off the sight of a huge stack of presents under the tree. 

This was a huge change from the last two times he'd woken up here. Decorations abounded: beribboned garlands hung around the doors, a variety of poinsettias (white, pink, and red) were scattered around the room--on the sideboard (the wet bar had disappeared) and end tables, family pictures adorned the walls, colorful paintings had replaced the stark black and white skylines. The mahogany leather sofa had been replaced with a generous sized sectional positioned in a u-shape, its dark blue microsuede upholstery complemented with pillows in shades of pink, from the palest sunrise to a vibrant shocking pink. A wedding ring quilt in shades of blue and pink on a cream background laid over the back of the sofa, the edging a little frayed from long use.

After a side trip to the bathroom to scavenge the medicine cabinet for a painkiller, Jim shuffled into the kitchen to get a glass of water. It looked to him like the doc had finally taken all his second chances to heart. He was glad of that; somebody should get their dearest wishes granted. It didn't look like McCoy would need the services of The Doorman anymore. 

The thought made Jim sad. He had enjoyed his little tussles with the cranky doctor. The contact had called to something inside him that had been solitary and aching for the longest time. He couldn't describe exactly what it was, but he had lived this long without it, he would continue to do so; it was better that way, he was sure of it. Jim thought it had something to do with the fact that he instinctively knew that if he sent McCoy on one more trip, it would ruin all his good work and tear something inside Jim that would never recover. He'd taken on the role of Doorman to fix things, not break them; even if it meant Jim stayed broken for eternity. The thought made his chest ache and he rubbed his hand up and down his sternum; the movement both comforting and confusing at the same time. 

Jim carried the rest of the glass of water back to the living room and plopped down on the sofa. He was pretty sure he didn't need to examine McCoy's dossier to see that all the cracks that had fractured his equilibrium had been mended in one way or the other. Still, he was curious to see how the man was doing now. Was he happily married with children; it looked like it from the family pictures scattered around the penthouse.

Flipping the file open, he scanned the pictures inside quickly. There was the same gorgeous woman from before in many of the pictures, along with a child--a little girl it became evident from the ballet-skirted Halloween photos--who grew quickly from baby to toddler to a freckle-faced urchin (seven or eight-years old, maybe second-grader?) And in every picture that had him, was a smiling, joyous McCoy.

Jim wanted to pat himself on the back for a job well-down, but it just made the ache in his chest worse. What was he missing?

He delved into the narrative of the file. Oh, there it was; the divorce decree for Jocelyn and Leonard McCoy. The sense of relief Jim felt surprised him, because in most cases it meant his job wasn't done. But right this minute, he felt that to meddle in McCoy's life any further might undo all the good he'd done so far. Should he chance it?

The ache in his chest waxed and waned as he vacillated over the decision, before he decided at last that McCoy had reached the pinnacle of redemption as required by Jim's office. Pain in his chest nearly made Jim bend over double, but he didn't back down on his decision; McCoy's path had been set straight. Oblivion had been circumvented, and for that, Jim was fiercely proud, no matter what it meant for him personally. Which it shouldn't; The Doorman must remain aloof and impartial in the performance of his office, feeling for the target shouldn't enter into it.

Despite knowing that, Jim decided he'd risk one more visit. Just to see that McCoy was happy in his new sphere of existence. It couldn't hurt, could it? McCoy's life was headed where it needed to go, and he wasn't going to interfere in any way. The thought made the ache in his chest ease. Yes, it was the right thing to do.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December 24th

Leonard looked out the window of the cab, eager to see the front driveway of the Enterprise come into view. He'd had the penthouse for a couple of months, now, but hadn't had time to actually come and visit it yet. The decorator he'd hired had sent him pictures of the new residence and he was very pleased. Leonard had asked that everything be child friendly, yet something adults would be comfortable with, too. The color scheme had surprised him, but the blues, pinks, and cream had made a striking impression without looking too one thing or the other. The added touch of his parents' quilt over the back of the sofa made his throat tighten a little. That one remnant of his earlier life had been with him through thick and thin; sometimes he thought it was the only thing that had tied him to this world.

As the cab pulled up to the stairs in front of the tower, Leonard could see a figure standing off to one side in scruffy jeans, a threadbare sweatshirt with holes in the neckline, hightops with the laces hanging loose, and a beat up leather bomber jacket. He looked vaguely familiar, but Leonard couldn't place him. Probably some kid looking for a handout from the well-to-do residents. Leonard was surprised the doorman hadn't run him off yet, but there didn't appear to be one in attendance at the moment. No matter, if he saw the same kid around later, he'd mention it to Mr. Spock; the manager was very efficient. Maybe give it a while, though, the weather was absolutely miserable and the kid looked like he could use a good meal.

Taking his time to pull on his scarf and gloves against the biting wind he could see tossing around the branches of ice covered trees, Leonard was surprised when the door by his passenger seat opened up, since the doorman had appeared to be busy elsewhere. He stepped out of the car and straightened up to look around, absently noting that the panhandler had done a bunk. Relieved that he wouldn't have to make a complaint, he wasn't a cruel man, Leonard was taken aback when he turned to face the figure waiting for him on the other side of the car door. If this was the doorman, he had materialized as if by magic.

Leonard paused a moment to examine the totally outlandish uniform (costume?) the doorman wore: a mismatched plaid patchwork coat and striped pants in varying shades of brown along with an extraordinarily long color-blocked scarf that nearly obscured a large gold pendant in the shape of a question mark. Furthering his observations, he took note of dark blonde hair that shone in the sun, the brightest blue eyes Leonard had ever seen (even Joce's, when he was still completely infatuated with her, had never seemed that blue to him) that seemed to look straight through him, and a somber face that held the saddest smile seen since Rick said good-bye to Ilsa in _Casablanca_. Something about the costumed character almost made him want to get back in the cab and be driven far, far away. 

Leonard had learned the hard way not one to turn tail and run, so instead he stepped away from the door and went to stand in front of the only person who could be the doorman at this moment, even if he did look like a figure from a children's show.

"Would you have someone take my luggage up to my penthouse, please? And tell them to be careful, there are gifts in there that are fragile." Aunt May loved Lladro, and even though each figurine had its own intricately constructed packing box (the boxes were collectibles in their own right) he'd chosen to carry them himself; he wanted no disappointments this Christmas. Leonard reached into his pocket and pulled out his money clip to peel off a couple of five dollar bills when his hand was stayed by the doorman.

"No need, Dr. McCoy. The Doorman doesn't require tipping." Something in the tone of the voice made him catch his breath. It wasn't just a characteristic (sexy, don't go there) rasp of the doorman's voice, it was as if the throat that made the sound was so dry from crying that it was scraped raw.

Leonard shook off the momentary fancy after the words caught up to him. He snorted, "Do you always talk about yourself in the third person? Bit pretentious, isn't it?"

"Comes with the trade," came the reply. "The Doorman doesn't have much choice; it's part of the gig." The doorman's voice was starting to take on a lighter tone, like he had a secret that he was dying to share.

"So, you're saying the moniker is bestowed upon you like a royal title? Should I be calling you Sir Doorman?" Leonard gave a little chuckle at his own joke.

"No, just The Doorman. Like, The Doctor?" The Doorman's voice took on a hopeful note this time.

Leonard snapped his fingers. "That's what your uniform looks like! You're all dressed up like Doctor Who. What, the Sixth Doctor?" he said after cocking his head and giving The Doorman another once over.

The Doorman's mouth stretched out into a wide smile of approval. "Yes, mostly. With a little bit of the Fourth Doctor thrown in for good measure." He smoothed his hand over the long, trailing scarf.

"Of course; now I see. The Fourth Doctor is my daughter's favorite. Mine, too." Leonard nodded his head. Something still set him a little bit on edge, though. He scrunched his face up in concentration as he tried to pinpoint whatever was causing the niggling sense of unease. Leonard put a hand to his mouth, running through his recent memories trying to find the specific trigger.

The Doorman seemed to sense something had set Leonard's early warning system into high alert and he backed away towards the entrance of the tower. It made him study the man even closer, the smile was starting to twitch at the corners, taking on a nervous edge.

"Why don't you let me show you to the lobby, Dr. McCoy. The concierge will get you up and settled in the comfort of your suite in a jiffy." He shuffled his feet a little, bobbing his head toward the front entrance, which, honestly, Leonard was a little surprised to see was something as mundane as a revolving door.

"Sure. But, here, even if you don't want a tip, give this to the kid that was standing out front earlier if you see him again. Looked like he could use it." Leonard pressed the two bills into The Doorman's hand, feeling like it might be a wasted gesture, but not really caring. 

The Doorman looked at the bills in his hand, then crumpled them tight. He coughed, "Yeah, Jim would like that." Gesturing towards the door, Leonard's guide continued, "If you'll follow me, Dr. McCoy."

They'd gone about half a dozen paces when Leonard stumbled, feeling a little dizzy. "Wait up," he said to The Doorman's back. He shook his head at the buzzing that had started inside it, his ears ringing with a high-pitched squeal. "Something's wrong. My head is _splitting_."

The Doorman turned back toward him and Leonard saw that his eyes had widened in alarm. To Leonard's consternation, rather than come forward and lend him assistance, The Doorman started backing away from him. He could hear him muttering, "Wrong, this is _all_ wrong. This isn't me."

Leonard went down on his knees in pain, holding his head between clenched fists. This was all so terribly familiar. He grit his teeth as memories speared their way into his consciousness like a Cro Magnon skewering an aurochs. The recollections started coming thick and fast. Christ, it was that annoying, meddling, crack-brained, devastatingly handsome (what? no!), _idiot_ who called himself The Doorman.

Struggling back up to his feet, Leonard pointed a trembling finger at the jack-ass who'd been fucking with him for the past two days (was it more, how would he know?) "You! I don't know what you've been doing to me, but I want it to stop right now!"

The Doorman held his hands up in front of him with his fingers spread in denial. "I stopped, I stopped! I just wanted to see you one more time. This isn't my fault."

"What do you mean not your fault, it sure as hell was!" Leonard snarled in anger. Yank him around like a child's pull toy, drag him through the dirt, and then say he didn't mean it? Not on.

"Those then, yes, but not this one!" The Doorman pointed at something behind Leonard and Leonard (gullible dumbass that he was) turned to look. His eyes widened in fear at the sight that loomed in front of him. 

It was a black and white tunnel, its parallel lines swirled and pulsed in an optical illusion that made it look like they projected into an infinite distance. The maw grew closer and closer; in seconds it would be engulfing Leonard and who knew where this one was going to take him. In fact, it felt like it was sucking him in. He could feel his hair start to tickle his forehead where it was being dragged forward, the flaps of his coat were fluttering toward it, too. The high-pitched squealing had started again, this time in an audible tone that bounced off the glass and metal surfaces around them, a deafening clangor that sent shivers through Leonard's bones. Leonard started to overbalance as the suction grew stronger, his feet actually lifting off the ground. Over the machine's whine, he didn't even notice the sound of feet pounding the pavement behind him before strong arms wrapped around his waist. 

"Noooo, not the void!" The Doorman's cry was so desolate that it ripped a sympathetic sob right out of Leonard's chest. He clutched the patchwork coat tight to him; he knew they could _not_ be separated.

They flew…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...and Leonard jolted awake in his camp bed, heart pounding a mile a minute, sweat pouring off him to make the sheets, already damp from the tropical humidity, even soggier. He shook his head to clear it of the extraordinary dream (nightmare? memory? he couldn't keep track anymore) he'd found himself immersed in. What had woken him up?

He turned his head to see one of the orderlies standing in the door to his hooch. "Commander McCoy, we've got incoming. We need you in the O.R."

Rolling himself up to sitting, Leonard swung his legs around and hunched over the side of the bed, placing his head in his hands. He rested there for a moment, letting the fog of sleep clear out so he could think. The manner of address felt familiar, but not familiar. Commander? When had he joined the Navy?

Leonard cleared his throat. "Yeah, got it. Be there in a tick." The orderly turned, moving along to the next hooch, leaving Leonard to his chaotic thoughts. He stuffed them down for the moment, while he scanned his living area for clues to where he could find clean clothes. At least a clean tee-shirt, the one he was wearing was soaked.

He spotted a steamer trunk sitting at the foot of the bed and hoped it held clothes as he didn't see anything else in the cramped quarters that might. Striding around the bed to where it sat, he lifted the lid and was relieved to see he had guessed correctly. Leonard stripped off his dirty shirt when he spotted some dingy tees sitting on top of other, more formal clothes underneath. There were short sleeved khaki shirts with silver oak leaves pinned to the collars, similarly colored pants and socks. Lots of socks with holes in them; guessed it was pretty hard to get new socks so far from civilization. Which was how far?

Leonard shrugged into the clean tee, put on the black boots he found sitting under the edge of the bed and stepped outside into the smothering heat. More men were coming out of similar hooches to either side of his; all seemed to be moving in the same direction, the O.R. he surmised.

One of the men, dark skinned and a flashing white smile, waved him over. "C'mon McCoy, got wounded to save. Gonna need your talents."

"Yours, too...M'Benga." He almost panicked that he wouldn't know the man's name, but it drifted up out of his subconscious like dandelion fluff on the wind. So tenuous, he wasn't sure he'd know what to do or how to help. More memories came with the surgeons name in a slow trickle of information.

Charlie Company, 3rd Medical Battalion. Danang. Viet Nam. 

This wasn't his life or anything he recognized from his past; what the hell was he doing here? If he could find The Doorman. Christ, The _Doorman_. Where was that bastard? They'd come through that...thing...together. Why wasn't he here, too?

Leonard stepped up his pace along with everyone else as they heard the sound of helicopter rotors beating their way through the thick air. The road he was on led to a flimsy looking structure with ragged canvas sides and a corrugated tin roof. Come to think of it, the same could be said of many of the buildings in the compound; this one was just larger in magnitude. This was obviously the focal point of all the energy surrounding him.

Taking a deep breath, he ducked into the medical tent along with M'Benga and a few of the other officers. He just hoped he acquitted himself well and didn't fuck anybody over with his lack of experience in battlefield trauma surgery. Leonard followed M'Benga and one other surgeon into the wash room to scrub up. It wasn't his first time at the table and he'd taken his share of shifts in the ER during his residency, should be like falling off a log, right?

Six hours and two patients later, wrist deep in the current kid's (so young) guts, calling out orders to the assisting nurse (Chapel, the dandelion fluff offered), Leonard could say the log had still been in the crown of the tree when he stepped off. He'd had to call on body memory to take over for him, and fortunately for these jarheads, it answered. The sheer number of improvisations required to put them back together amazed him. So many techniques he'd never dreamed of, not as a neurologist (or as a plastic surgeon whispered the faint voice that grew louder with every prompt) who only saw shaved heads above sheet-covered bodies.

Thank heavens they hadn't placed him in the triage anti-chamber. The things those doctors did were so far removed from what he would have ever considered in the typical civilian hospital setting as to be something you'd find on Mars. Both groins opened up, saphenous veins cannulated with IV _tubing_ , forget the needles. Some of these kids had had up to twenty pints of blood pumped into them or they would have bled out before they got to his table.

The young man currently residing there had one knee and tibia totally torn apart, but it was the gut wound that was killing him if he couldn't get all the bleeders closed and the intestine resected. He didn't have enough hands for this and there weren't enough surgeons to assist. 

"Get me another ten units at table two, dammit!" he hollered out to any of the available orderlies standing around the edge of the room.

"Type?" came the crisp retort.

Leonard glanced at the current bag fastened to one end of the table. "A neg." Knowing that the blood was coming, he bent his entire attention to the minutiae of tying off all the small open blood vessels that were siphoning away the marine's life. As long as the kid was still breathing, he would keep working and then some; the man (this particular man, why?) deserved his full attention more than any of them. 

That thought kept niggling at him, ate at him the rest of the time he was working on the marine. Back when he'd dropped his sight from the IV bag and bent over the hemorrhaging abdomen in front of him, his sight had naturally passed over the patient's face. Something about it was familiar. Leonard kept stealing little glances at the features under the anesthesia mask, but they were heavily obscured and indistinct. He forced himself to shake it off; he'd be no good for this kid with his concentration split over something so trivial. Later; he could check up on him later, in the combined ICU/recovery room.

The rest of the day followed the same pattern, until the last of the wounded had been wheeled into recovery. They would remain there until deemed stable enough to be moved to a regular ward tent. If their recovery was anticipated to take longer than 120 days, they'd be shipped back stateside. In most cases, the patient would be go back to the front (as if it was a simple line in the sand, what with an enemy that appeared and disappeared out of nowhere like a jack in the box), in what probably seemed to them, less than no time.

When the last patient had been wheeled away by an orderly, Leonard went into the scrub room to remove his operating gown and clean up. It was probably the most exhausting day he'd ever spent in surgery, but it had also been the most exhilarating. If he didn't love neurology so much, he might consider changing his specialty when he got back, if he got back. 

That damn Doorman. He was genuinely starting to worry. This had been the longest amount of time he'd been trapped in one of these alternate realities, or whatever you could call them. It seemed that every time before he'd had to make sort of choice that altered his life. But this wasn't _his_ life. Whatever had happened here, happened before he was even born. Leonard put those thoughts away for later contemplation; he couldn't let them interfere with his current duties.

Despite his earlier mid-morning nap--sleep was catch as catch can--and his current exhaustion, he wasn't ready to turn in. Nor could he yet, even if he wanted. Leonard still needed to make rounds of his patients to make sure they were stable and ready to be moved from recovery to a regular ward. Particularly the kid whose innards he'd put back together. Turned out M'Benga was an orthopedic surgeon and took over for Leonard when it came time to put Humpty Dumpty's leg back together. 

That particular marine fascinated him for some reason. Under all the blood and gore that there hadn't been time to clean off before the operation (the higher priority was saving his life, they'd washed only what was needed in order to keep the wounds clean), he could see the smooth lines of long, lithe limbs, heavily muscled shoulders that narrowed down to a slender waist, and a very enviable six pack. The kid was probably twenty pounds underweight, but that was par for the course out here. This instinctive attraction puzzled him and he wouldn't rest until he'd got a better look at the kid and slaked his curiosity.

Leonard put on a new sterile gown and headed over to the recovery room. He could see a couple of the other surgeons making rounds, scanning charts, touching shoulders in comfort, sometimes sitting down with the patient to add extra reassurance. Most of the young men were barely recognizable, now that they'd been cleaned up post-op and dressed in hospital gowns. Starting at one end of the first row, he picked up the chart and started reading. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could get out and get some chow and then some sleep, he hoped.

When he picked up the last of his charts, Leonard realized by some stroke of luck this was the one marine he couldn't keep out of his thoughts. He read it over avidly for the personal information that had been irrelevant when he was wrist deep in the kid's abdomen.

His attention was drawn immediately to the name at the top of the record: James T. Kirk; it resonated with him. Probably nick-named Jim. Common name, Jim. Like that kid that was panhandling outside the Enterprise. Leonard shook his head; that was nothing more than coincidence, wasn't it?

Reading on, he saw that Jim (had to be) was a captain, twenty-six years old, Jewish, with his home of record listed as Riverside, Iowa. Emergency contact--Winona Kirk, mother. One allergy--to peanuts. Having gleaned everything he could, Leonard finally turned his scrutiny to the physical features that were available to him while his patient was unconscious. His record listed him as 6'1", 180 pounds (not anymore), blonde hair, blue eyes, no distinguishing marks. He could verify the hair color, even as short as it was cropped around the ears. The eyes were still hidden in sleep, but Leonard could clearly see them (The Doorman had the most striking eyes) in his imagination. The wait until he could confirm it was going to be agonizing.

Leonard was about to put the chart down when Jim (no other name would do) started to twitch and roll his head from side to side. Looked like he was coming out of the anesthetic about on time. Leonard would have worried if it had been any longer. He waited in anticipation for those gorgeous blue eyes to open.

The patient, Jim, he was going to call him that regardless, groaned and gave a pained cough, making the dry throat left behind by the anesthetic evident. Leonard looked down at the small wooden table by the side of the bed. A pitcher of water sat there, with a stack of paper cups. He picked one up and poured less than a quarter of an inch in the bottom. Sliding his arm under Jim's head, he lifted it up and held the cup to the dry, cracked lips.

"Can you hear me?" Leonard asked quietly.

A few blinks of sleepy eyes indicated understanding, so Leonard starting speaking softly to the patient.

"I've got some water here. Take small sips, just wet your lips. I had to resection your small intestine and it will take a while before you'll be allowed to have any significant amount of fluids. Can you do that?" Leonard gave the instructions slowly, waiting for acknowledgement between each statement.

Jim wet his lips with his tongue. "Yeah, Bones. Please."

Leonard held the cup to his lips and tipped it just enough that Jim could flick out his tongue and dab it in the water, swiping his tongue over his lips. Leonard had the wholly inappropriate thought that he'd like to see that tongue used in a different setting, a much more personal one. He shook off a dizzy feeling as a very explicit picture of the two of them in a luxurious hotel room popped into his head of just that; naked, in bed, limbs twined together, both of them panting with the release of quality sex. Was that the past, the future, when? Had it happened, was it just his imagination?

Shaking his head, he sought to answer Jim's question. "Yeah, we had to piece together quite a few bones, too. Your left knee and tibia were pretty messed up by shrapnel. Lt. Commander M'Benga is an expert at putting Humpty Dumpty back together again, though," Having reined his overactive inner vision back in line with his current duties, he pulled the cup away after a couple more sips. 

"Not those bones, you--Bones; I'd know you anywhere," mumbled Jim.

Leonard crumpled his brow in confusion. "No idea what you're talking about, kid."

"Not what, _who_ ," came the emphatic retort.

The comment couldn't have lit up his understanding more than a klieg light if it had been pointed straight at his face. Leonard gasped, "It is you! The fucking Doorman."

JIm nodded weakly, his chin barely dipping down towards his chest.

"How do you know me?" Leonard hissed. His voice grew angry with his following demands. "Why do you keep fucking with me? And why are we _here_? This isn't my life."

A broken laugh turned into a harsh cough. "More water, Bones, please?"

Leonard held the cup to Jim's mouth again, responding automatically to a patient's needs. He saw that Jim's eyelids were starting to droop, and that he was fighting off the fatigue that extreme trauma and surgery placed on the body. His heart ached a little for the young man's pain, his ingrained desire to help overtaking any anger.

"We'll talk about this later, Jim. Your name is Jim, right?" He got a few blinks of the sleepy eyes in return. Leonard took it as acknowledgement. Before he could stop himself, he found himself reaching out to brush the back of his hand lightly against Jim's cheek. "Sleep now. I'll come back when you're able to stay awake a little longer." 

Leonard left the recovery tent, stripped off his white lab coat and hung it on a hook in the scrub room. Taking the dirt road back to his hooch, hoped he could find the mess tent. He didn't know if it would still be open (how did he know these things, this jargon, it was so frustrating to only have bits and pieces of the knowledge he needed for this place or time), but he'd see if he could scrounge something up to eat. He'd even beg C-rats off the quartermaster (more of that damned esoteric knowledge) if he had to. The hours spent on his feet and the adrenaline rush of surgery had drained him. He needed food and sleep, preferably in that order, to be able to operate with any competence the next time he was called to duty. 

It was late, well past sundown, but when he stepped outside of his hooch he could see a few other's making their way to a tent another hundred yards or so down the road. He figured such a common gathering place must offer something of value. Leonard headed off that way, finding himself joined along the way when Geoffrey M'Benga (another of those unexpected sparks of memory) stepped out of a hooch a little further down from him.

"Missed the dinner bell?" M'Benga asked, his mouth twisted to one side in a rueful grin. Hazard of the job, as we all know."

Leonard nodded. "Could eat a horse, but I suppose we'll be lucky to get SOS."

His walking companion snorted. "The gourmet food is the best part of being stationed here. The hours are rotten, the roaches have conquered the country and are using my hooch as their headquarters, I've got a fungus on my feet that not even borax can kill, but at least we get three hots a day." 

By then they'd reached the mess tent where they got in line behind quite a few others who'd had the same idea. After getting a plate of, totally unidentifiable to Leonard, victuals, they found a table occupied by a few of the other medical personnel and took their seats. Light chatter started immediately, comparing operations, complaining about availability, or lack thereof, of certain medications and other supplies. 

Leonard shoveled the food into his mouth, grateful that he had something hot and filling after the exhausting day. He contributed only mildly to the conversation, his background too spotty to offer much, with small details that made him fit in with his compatriots enough to pass as native. Eventually, he excused himself back to his hooch, impatient to see what would happen next. Having been dropped in this reality, not his own, he didn't know what would happen if he went to sleep. Perhaps he'd wake up in his own reality, perhaps he'd be stuck here. It was less than optimal, he didn't know what would happen to Aunt May or Joanna, if his being here had completely changed things and they wouldn't exist in the future of his current 'life'. But staying awake wasn't likely to fix things, either. He was dependent on The Doorman, Jim, to get them out of there. Only Leonard hadn't any idea if he could. 

He laid himself down on his cot, atop the thin blanket, the heat still oppressive even in the late night air. Sleep, while not strictly welcome, was the only way to find out what was to come next.

Leonard slept,...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...waking as his whole body jolted with the full-body flexion that often occurred when coming out of twilight sleep, the mind overwhelmed by the anxious feeling that you had been floating inches above the bed only to come crashing down to reality.

Once again he awoke in a sweat, this time due to the remnants of a dream (more like a nightmare, the jury was out) of an alien sky above scattered rocks in an otherwise abandoned landscape. Leonard's heart thundered in tandem with his from the dream. His arm was trapped inside some sort of device, a weapon. A woman (Carol, Marcus, the admiral's daughter, the names shouldered their way into his memory), her hands shuffling through wires on the other side of the torpedo (cryotube?) in an attempt to disarm it as it counted down. 

Voices yammered at him from thin air, something he accepted without question in the dream. 

"I can't beam him up, keptin, without beaming the torpedo with him." Something about the voice sounded familiar, but he can't pinpoint it. In the dream, the name Chekov is assigned to the accented words. It's more than that, but the urgency of the scene forces Leonard to put it aside

"Do it, do it," came the frantic words of the captain. Again, without being able to see the speaker, Leonard can only guess at the panicked face that matched the stammered words. He should know it; it whispered words of praise into his ears most nights. Fantastic, filthy words that shouldn't be making him hot with his chest tight with fear, but the memories keep flowing in like a rapids careening down a narrow canyon. All he could do was wait for the fall.

The fall never came, instead he felt an insistent tugging, upward--if any direction could be assigned to it, like every atom of his body was being twisted on their axes and torn apart. He's being disintegrated (transported, says the joker in his head, danger and darkness.)

"I can do it!" the blonde (Carol, nice ass) shouted, insistent, frantic.

It's the last thing he heard before he woke up. 

Leonard had to know. The only one who can answer his question, he was positive, was Captain James T. Kirk. He's not even sure if he's still in the same place he was last night. It looked the same: the plywood hooch, the rusty camp bed, the sweaty sheets clinging to his legs and back. But the way he's been skipping back and forth, one place, one time, one life to another, sleeping, awake, there was no knowing which one was real, which one _mattered_ to him in this moment.

He ran to find the man in (of) his dreams.


End file.
